Hydraulic Level Five Companions
by Gondolier
Summary: I wanted to make these two outtakes available again, exclusively for fanfic readers and writers. They offer insight to HL5's characters and I hated to lose them. They were also written for charity, and belong here .
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **So, dear floozies, in a very tongue-in-cheek move, I am now the first author to publicly FANFIC THEIR OWN FICTION. (Do you find humor in this? I do!)

**Shameless plug: If you are interested in reading ****_Hydraulic Level Five_**** as an entirely independent story (or need a refresher), you can find it on Amazon (also on my profile).**

**_***Hydraulic Level Five_**** on AMAZON******* amazon dot com /Hydraulic-Level-Five-ebook/dp/B00EXC1G0Y/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1378411426&sr=1-1&keywords=Hydraulic+Level+Five**

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**Disclaimer:** These outtakes contains SPOILERS for _Hydraulic Level Five_ (2013) and _Skygods (2014)_. If you never read the stories when they were fanfiction, I recommend putting this on hold (unless you don't mind spoilers…you've been warned).

HL5 Companions Ch. 1 & 2 were written for Support Stacie Auction winners Revrag and Peyotemusic, so be sure to thank them—without their generosity, the vignettes wouldn't have been written.

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_**Hydraulic Level Five: **__**When water pours over an object hidden in the heart of the river, water reverses upstream and creates a whitewater hydraulic. River travelers are often trapped in its dangerous churn indefinitely…**_

_**(**_**Hydraulic Level Five**_** vignettes, as told by Samuel)**_

**1. Bank Scout  
**_**Before navigating a treacherous stretch of river, a paddler must get out of the craft and scout the rapids from the bank.**_

When I was eight years old, I fell in love with a girl.

She was a neighbor girl with large hazel eyes who studied me in singular fascination, as if I were a moth breaking free from a chrysalis. And through her intense study she became an expert of _me_. Reading my moods, knowing when to push and when to back away, and when to make me laugh. If she'd wanted to, she could have rattled off secrets about me as if she were listing my favorite food, color, song, book:

Samuel's greatest fear: falling out of a high-rise window.

Samuel's most embarrassing moment: wetting his bed and hiding the sheets in his closet.

Samuel's most despised pastime: talking about his parents.

But because I despised even _thinking_ about my parents, I never told her that I wet the bed after having a nightmare about tumbling from our high-rise window in Boston, struggling against my mother's arms as wind whipped our hair and clothing and skin, and gray pavement loomed closer…closer…closer. And because I despised talking about my parents, I never told her how my mother—my _real _mother—had, in fact, been broken and splattered across the sidewalk of the hotel, where she'd fallen to her death not two miles from Fenway Park.

With time came the knowledge that my mother's death was _not_ accidental, and my fear of tumbling from high-rise windows subsided. But my hatred of discussing anything at all about my parents did not. Because, for the longest time, I believed in fate…_Rota Fortunae_ had spun my family to suffer. Medieval, yes, but I truly thought the course of my life was set the moment I was born.

So I loved this girl…and I left her. I left her because I was fated to fall from a high-rise window, her innocent body wrapped in my arms.

_**Two years earlier, the day before Thanksgiving…**_

"How are the roads?" my mother asked, glancing up with concern from a chopping board piled with celery and carrots. My father sat on a stool across from her, one of his countless article submissions open on his laptop. Somehow, when I whipped around the outskirts of the Rocky Mountain roads after my trip to Boulder for guitar strings, I knew I'd find them just like this when I returned. Affectionate and content, tucked away in a kitchen fragrant with Thanksgiving pies cooling on counters. I'd missed this kitchen, with its warm oak and tall walls my mother had since painted a rusty red.

And soon, in a couple of hours, this room would be perfect because _she'd_ be here.

"Just wet—no snow." I shook drops of rain from my coat and hung it on a peg in the mud room. One single step into the kitchen and my mother hissed.

"Shoes! I just mopped."

I cast a rueful look as she mumbled about some things never changing, and discarded my muddy shoes.

"I hope Kaye doesn't have any difficulty on the back roads," she said as she started on a pile of mangos for the pie she was making. "Perhaps she should wait to visit until the rain stops." She wiped her hands and reached for the phone.

"No!" I said quickly. Both parents froze. I ruffled my hair, embarrassed. "Look—the temperatures are rising, so the roads won't freeze. And it's a fairly big deal that she even agreed to come over while I'm here, in the first place. I don't want to jinx it."

My father and mother exchanged a meaningful look before they returned to editorials and mangos. But their worry was not lost on me.

"What's wrong?"

Dad cleared his throat. "About that. _Tu madre_," he stressed, "thought it unnecessary to actually inform Kaye you'd be here."

I frowned, turning to my mother for an explanation.

She sighed. "Oh Samuel. It's just…Kaye is so leery of you these days, especially after your books caused such a storm. I thought if we could actually get her through the door, everything else would sort itself out."

Sort itself out? Not likely.

Disappointment hit my gut as I processed my mother's confession, along with the hope that had climbed to stellar heights. This wasn't Kaye willing to accept my olive branch after five years. This was a set-up, and she was about to be blindsided by my mere presence. This was _not_ going to be the heartfelt reunion I was anticipating. In fact, she'd be furious. She might not even take her coat off before she was sprinting back to her car.

I groaned and reached for the phone. "I'm calling her. Is she at Toms's or Gails's?"

"Gail's," my mother said sheepishly.

I punched in half the number then paused, my finger hovering over the next button. And then it drifted to the 'end' button. I couldn't do it. A coward, I dropped the receiver and buried my face in aggravated hands. "Damn it."

Dad tentatively patted my shoulder, still on edge after our argument last night. I wasn't entirely ready to forgive him, either. Our confrontation had been a long time coming, and we had layers of hostility to chip through. It wouldn't happen overnight.

"I'm just asking you to be realistic," he'd insisted yesterday evening while I plunked on my guitar, as if I didn't already live with my reality every morning I swallowed my meds. "If you plan to let Kaye back into your life, you need to at least tell her what that life will be like."

"My life is as normal as the next person's, Dad," I said, my voice biting. "I've had no moods that haven't been manageable since I started the meds, and definitely nothing so extreme it disrupts my life."

He crossed his arms. "And your little arrest last year—that wasn't disruptive?"

"That wasn't my illness," I fired back. "That was…a relapse."

"The fact that you're willing to deny your behavior was a hypomanic episode tells me you aren't being realistic."

"I haven't been hypomanic since I was in Raleigh, and I certainly haven't had any debilitating moods. Christ's sake, Dad, I've published five books, staged two plays, and built up a fan base that rivals J.K. Rowling. If that's debilitating, then I'd hate to see your idea of normal."

"Watch your language, please. It isn't like you." He gazed at my face with those sharp eyes, as if he could see straight into my head to examine every single malfunctioning synapse. "Samuel, I know you've dealt with this remarkably—you have the greatest resilience I've ever _seen_. You've always been brilliant and savvy. But even you, son, are fallible. Don't forget what hypomania is, what it does, how it makes you feel. Half the time, you aren't even aware you're _in_ a hypomanic state. Or when you fall _out_ of one."

I pursed my lips, holding back an even angrier retort that would simply add credence to his assertions—my moods were not quite under control.

Given all outward appearances, I'd been functioning normally for five years and no one, save for my parents and Caroline, knew the mental battle raging in my brain. By now, I was an expert war strategist when it came to battling funks and highs, and I thanked God for my natural inclinations toward logic and reason. I'd fought long and hard to keep my mind grounded. If I'd been a flighty person, this illness would literally have been the death of me, long ago. I knew better than _anyone_—my mother, my father, my therapist—what I was and wasn't capable of. And after five long years of sparing Kaye the enslavement which comes with loving someone like me, at last I could offer her a healthy mind. She deserved that much.

"I am done having this discussion with you," I said darkly. "Kaye wants to see me, period. You and Mom will refrain from interfering in this matter. Am I clear?"

My father only stared me down with a mix of sadness and regret. I looked away and refocused on the song I'd been writing for Kaye since noon, trying to forget that he'd read every single one of my books five times over, clinging to my bizarre words in my absence…

My mother's steady chopping broke through my thoughts. "Samuel," she said quietly, "for what it's worth, I think she'll be happy to see you again. If she's upset, let me take the fall for tricking her. She'll understand why I had to do it."

"Because she hates the sight of me," I grumbled. Now I knew where my father's piteous looks were coming from. Kaye didn't want to see me, after all. Perhaps I _was_ deluding myself as he'd hinted, thinking I could ever be to her what I once was. But, God help me, I had to _try_.

"She doesn't hate you. She's afraid to see you again, I think. Kaye has such bravery in everything she does, except when it comes to you."

"Can you really blame her, Mom, after what I did? I left her in a horribly cruel way."

"You were sick—you couldn't help it."

"My illness is _not_ an acceptable excuse for abandoning and cheating on my wife."

"It's an _explanation_, not an excuse. One is what one is, and it's time to stop hiding, _hijo_. It's something Kaye needs to hear. She's grown so much stronger, so confident in recent years. She could handle…everything," she urged.

I glared at my mother, then my father, wondering if they had organized this joint plan of attack before I'd set foot in Colorado. Both were suddenly very keen on hitting Kaye with every sordid aspect of my mental struggles before she had a chance to wish them "Happy Thanksgiving." But I knew Kaye better than either of them. Thanks to her parents' failed relationship, the entire time we were together, long before my illness struck, she was waiting for the other shoe to drop…perhaps she had a bit of the _Rota Fortunae_ fear in her, too. And she was rash—if I spilled everything at her feet, from the drugs to the moods to my parents, she'd panic and run. No, a little at a time was best when it came to a skittish Kaye.

Mom gazed at me with hopeful, shining eyes. I clenched at my hair and relented a bit.

"I'll tell her. Just not today. Today, I simply need to convince her to spend more than five minutes in my presence."

"But you _will_ tell her," my father said, a statement rather than a question.

"Yes. I'll tell her." _Some day._

When I was eight, I informed Sofia I was meant to be in love with the neighbor girl. My adopted mother cooed, smiled, hugged me and told me what a sweet boy I was to believe myself in love. She went on to explain that at my age, it wasn't really _possible _to be in love—even though I was certain I loved Kaye.

And I was certain. I _knew_ it was possible—entirely possible, given I was already an oddity. I was the brainy boy who corrected teachers. I was the quiet boy who knew things that no child should know. I learned quickly that five-year-old boys who spoke about things like night clubs, little white pills, vodka, blades and cutting, sex and death ended up in the office of a pompous prep-school shrink. And because I was different and knew about these things, I knew Sofia was wrong—that I _could_ be in love with the neighbor girl.

But with every other fleeting childhood fancy, the idea was forgotten as some other fancy took hold, discarded in my closet like a toy whose novelty had worn off. And yet, the feeling remained.

I swirled the amber whiskey in my glass, watching as the crystal caught the dim light above my parents' basement bar and colors fractured against my hand. There would be no sleep…not tonight. With the meds I was taking, I wasn't supposed to touch alcohol. Yet here it was, warm and ready and numbing.

It wasn't until years later, when I became a wordsmith, it occurred that my problem was not a child's inability to be in love. My problem was the English language. The Greeks have four separate words for 'love'—_agape_, _eros_, _philia_, and _storgē_—each with a slightly different connotation. In English, we have one word—_love_—that can mean a thousand different things:

I love the ocean.

I love my family.

I love music.

I love you.

I love cars.

I wish there was a word in the English language to describe the love that is pain and ceaseless in devotion. The kind of love I could destroy myself over, and gladly. But there was no one word. Because we are frail beings who only use a small percentage of our brain capacity, it is impossible for us to describe the strength of love we can hold in our hearts for another. And because I was a child as well as a frail being, I couldn't explain to Sofia, or the neighbor girl, what was in my heart.

All I could say was "I love you, Kaye."

I rolled the glass between my fingers again and snorted. _Healthy indeed_, my broken mind mocked. _Just down the damned drink, you coward. Get it over with._

She was here this afternoon, in my arms. I'm older, wiser. But why was I _still_ unable to make her understand how I loved her? Me, a master of words. There was nothing I could say that she would believe, now, after all these years. English is sadly lacking. And so, apparently, is my judgment.

I was so wrapped in my wallowing, I didn't hear the back door open and close, or see the hallway light flick on. And I didn't hear the heavy footsteps of my friend as he tromped down the stairs, into the dark basement.

Angel immediately snatched the glass from my hand and sniffed, his nose crinkling. "I thought Big Papa C locked up the liquor cabinet."

"He still thinks I don't know where he hides the key."

He sighed, not returning my glass. "How much have you drank?"

"Not a single…fucking…drop."

"Could have fooled me, bro. I hear you and the parental units pulled a fast one on Kaye today."

I sat up sharply. "You've talked to her? How is she? What did she say?"

He plopped into an armchair across from me. "No, I haven't talked to her. But Danita said she's pretty messed up. It was all I could do to keep your sister from storming over here and clawing out your eyes. Dude, I could have warned you that making nice with Kaye will take more than a pretty song and mango pie."

"She really hates me, then."

"Yeah. It's only because she's still so hung up on you, in spite of everything."

"No, Angel. I don't think she is." I may have poor judgment, but I wasn't a fool. I understood the irreparable damage I'd caused better than him or Danita, or my parents.

Today had been a disaster. A fucking _disaster_. I should have known better.

I played the overconfident golden boy. It didn't fool her for a minute.

I tried to walk her back to an earlier, easier time. She resisted every step.

I pretended we were still best friends and the past five years hadn't happened. And she let me have it.

But the words that hurt the most…Kaye never wanted the marriage.

Why hadn't I listened to my own consternations all those years ago? I thought we were too young. We still had so many things to worry about, like college and finances. If I'd once stopped to consider why she _really _wanted to marry me—because her parents didn't believe in marriage—I would have listened to those consternations, loud and clear. If we'd waited, maybe things would have been different.

But she'd wanted that damned fairytale. And because I loved her, I gave in. I fucking wanted to keep her, and look where it got us.

Never again would I consider dragging her into dark places with me.

"Anyway, it's the way it should be," I said firmly.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Angel scowled. "You're just giving up?"

"Trust me, you don't want your friend around a sick lunatic. There's a reason I stayed away and that reason still exists. Dad's right—it always _will _exist. It's better for Kaye if she's not around me."

Angel looked thoroughly confused. "Man, you always did have some major self-loathing issues. Whatever went down can be fixed—"

"You don't get it," I cut in harshly. "I can't be_ fixed_. I'm not _normal_. Normal people pass the meat counter in the grocery store and think 'those steaks would be great on the grill' or 'we need a pound of hamburger for spaghetti tonight.'"

"Seriously man, have you been drinking? Let me smell your breath."

"Do you know what goes through my head?"

"No," he frowned.

"I see a row of steaks and from the blackest cave of my mind, thoughts escape. Strange images, like toe tags and body bags, and carcasses—just a reminder that life ends at the charnel house; that we're always decaying, always dying. It's…not pleasant, Angel. Frankly, it's insane. And I certainly don't want Kaye hanging out there."

He was quiet for a long moment. I kept my head down, so I only heard him dump the whiskey down the drain and the soft clink of the glass as he left it in the bar sink. I felt him sit across from me, his clear eyes heavy on mine.

"Does this always happen when you go to the grocery store?"

"Only sometimes."

"Are you depressed?"

"Only sometimes," I repeated.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He squirmed uncomfortably, and I saw the blatant fear and sorrow in his face. Guilt clouded my conscience. I offered him a smile.

"I didn't want to put you in a bad position. Danita doesn't know and I prefer it remain that way, at least for now. She can be…unpredictable."

"Dani does tend to force issues. And she'd definitely tell Kaye if she knew."

"Kaye can't know, Angel," I said gravely. "Do you understand why?"

"Yeah, I get you. Kaye's a damned martyr. But man…" He scrubbed his face, torn. "Maybe you should let Kaye decide what's best for her. She's a smart _mamacita_, and super strong—give her a chance. She might surprise you."

I nodded, suddenly envious of all the time Angel was able to spend with Kaye. They'd obviously grown closer in my absence.

"Is she happy?" I asked softly.

"Yeah, she's real happy. She's a big name in Boulder now, what with her marketing business and her hot little ass the ticket to score." He grinned, then took pity on me. "She misses you a lot, though. She'll never say it, but she does. You two always had that weird connection, you know?" He thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. "You should invite her to a concert or something. She'd like that."

A small flame of hope rekindled in my chest. "Do you think she'd go?"

He shrugged. "It's worth a shot, as long as you don't try to trick her again. You know better than anyone that she hates it when people treat her all fragile and stuff. Just ask her out, dude—a friendly little concert. Music's your thing, remember?"

"Maybe," I answered, already knowing I'd be scanning the _Denver Post_ for upcoming Kaye-ish gigs. My beautiful neighbor girl had loved me, once. Perhaps she could again.

In spite of everything, I still wanted her to. I wanted to believe I could change my fate. That there was such a thing as free will and choice, and I had the weight to defy _Fortunae_—even after her wheel felled me time and again.

_I defy you, stars_, I mused grimly.

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**Shameless plug take 2: Again, if you are interested in reading the new version of ****_Hydraulic Level Five_**** (or need a refresher), you can find it on Amazon (also on my profile).**

**_***Hydraulic Level Five_**** on AMAZON******* amazon dot com /Hydraulic-Level-Five-ebook/dp/B00EXC1G0Y/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1378411426&sr=1-1&keywords=Hydraulic+Level+Five**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **

**Shameless plug take 3: If you are interested in reading the new version of ****_Hydraulic Level Five_**** (or need a refresher), you can find it on Amazon (also on my profile).**

**_***Hydraulic Level Five_**** on AMAZON******* amazon dot com /Hydraulic-Level-Five-ebook/dp/B00EXC1G0Y/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1378411426&sr=1-1&keywords=Hydraulic+Level+Five**

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Disclaimer: These outtakes contains SPOILERS for _Hydraulic Level Five_ (2013) and _Skygods (2014)_. If you never read the stories when they were fanfiction, I recommend putting this on hold (unless you don't mind spoilers…you've been warned).

HL5 Companions Ch. 1 & 2 were written for Support Stacie Auction winners Revrag and Peyotemusic, so be sureto thank them—without their generosity, the vignettes wouldn't have been written.

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**2. Offset Waves**

_**A wild stretch of waves that curl and collide into each other from all angles.**_

_The morning after the Button Rock Reservoir trip and the ultimate prank night…_

Dull blue light spilled into the cave-like darkness of my parents' basement, competing with the glow of the end table lamp I'd switched on hours ago. It wouldn't have woken up Kaye. Once she was out, she was down for the count, typically. And this morning had been no exception. The corners of my mouth quirked at how simple it had been to ease her warm body and jello limbs from the sofa where she'd crashed for the night, and liberally sprinkle powdered milk beneath her.

The girls' planning and execution were flawless. Their clean-up…not so much. Who leaves powdered milk and permanent markers sitting outside a bedroom door after ruthlessly pranking someone? And furthermore, who then falls asleep on the basement sofa instead of running for the fort and pulling the drawbridge?

Kaye Trilby—that's who. If there was a tornado tearing down her street, she'd stand in her front yard and watch it.

I glanced at the clock above the mantle—six forty-two. More than enough time for her skin to absorb the milk, if the stench emanating from my own pores was any indication. Surely she would have to wake up soon if she still planned to go to work today. I sat back in my armchair, watching her eyelashes shudder against pink cheeks. She was dreaming.

Maybe I should wake her up. The thought of seeing the vibrant hazel of her eyes as she blinked against the morning light was appealing. But watching her sleep was even more so. The last time I'd watched her sleep was seven years ago, when I shared her bed every night. I'd always loved it—the lax curl of her lips, her lineless forehead. Occasionally she'd mutter incoherent things, but I'd always heard my name somewhere in there.

I wondered…did she still dream about me?

A quiet sigh and a small puff of air sounded and I froze, ready to run for the stairs before she caught me staring at her. But then again, did I really care if she caught me? I relaxed into the chair, deciding I did not care. A selfish part of me wanted her to know I watched her while she slept, burning eyes skimming over the hills and valleys of her body beneath a ratty quilt. But she didn't wake. Rather, she sighed again and rolled over, her face now hidden against the back of the sofa. Damn.

For the thousandth time, my thoughts turned to last night and the things I'd learned. Needless to say, the return trip from Button Rock Reservoir was grave…

_She wasn't happy. _

Emotion had spilled from her in torrents and flooded the Campervan. I'd glanced at her in the passenger seat, all slouch and arms, pulling into herself, keeping me at bay. The cool moonlight highlighted the sorrow rife in the gentle lines around her mouth and eyes. And she tried so hard to present a blank face. If she only knew how easy it was to catch her unaware and see her bewilderment, plain as day.

Since she stormed my book signing and reentered my life with dramatic flare, I'd boneheadedly believed her angry looks, her irritation, her unhappiness were caused by my presence. But now, I didn't think so. All I knew was her plaintive silences and sad sighs carried the weight of years, not weeks.

In seven years, girlhood had all but faded. Her face was more angular, her eyes wiser, her body curvier. Yet it was all still Kaye, and I found my throat dry, my own body aching with a desperate need to simply touch her. The recognizable shaking in my hands began to surface and I clutched the steering wheel before I betrayed myself to her. I could feel the same old, abject misery creeping into the edges of my mind. I pushed it back. It wouldn't do to go down _that_ road, not again, not after that ill-fated Thanksgiving episode and the subsequent months of insomnia and black despair. It was remarkable I'd been able to write anything at all; Caroline had been ruthlessly swift to demand revisions to my spiraling, unabashedly nonsensical prose that became _The Last Other_.

Muted strains of her southern rock could not fill the quiet of Cassady's Campervan. Somewhere beyond the dark curve of the road, familiar hills flanked either side like sentinels guarding the stretch between Lyons and Boulder. They were old friends, but tonight I felt them creeping closer, rolling their rocky masses until they overwhelmed me and kept me forever in the mountains. If they caught me, my feet might actually fuse to the ground…and I wouldn't mind.

She shuddered.

"Are you warm enough?" I asked. She only shrugged, but I fiddled with the temperature control, anyway.

I'd been prepared to answer her questions about what happened in New York. Who was the woman? _A stranger who was a convenient lay for a sex-starved addict._ Why didn't I contact her after she left New York? _I was a mess in rehab._ Why was I using in the first place? _Because it was the only thing that made the sadness go away._ I'd have to be careful with that answer, because it would open a whole new can of worms. Kaye and I had a lot of pain to dig through, and I wasn't ready to answer questions about my illness. But how to explain what happened in New York without telling her _that_? I sighed. It would have to be the drugs alone, for now.

I had expected her to throw her relationship with Hector in my face. I was braced for the brightness of her smile, the glow of love as she'd tell me how happy she was, how our divorce was all for the best. I was prepared to play the cool, water-under-the-bridge ex. I had _not_ expected the anguish in her eyes. Or her wringing hands, voice pleading with me to tell her what she did wrong to make me unhappy enough to leave her.

_I refuse to end up alone because of you…_

With a handful of words, she shattered the entire illusion of a protective case I'd tenderly welded for seven years in a feeble attempt to spare her the sadness. My leaving had accomplished the opposite. I stole her joy. I forced my misery upon her. And now, in retrospect, it all seemed so apparent. What did I possibly _think_ would happen when I walked out, treating our marriage vows as flippantly as if I'd reneged on a promise to take out the trash?

Oh, there was nothing flippant about my decision to leave the woman I would love until I uttered my last death rattle. But she didn't know that, did she? Because I'd lied to her.

I warily glanced at her face again. She wouldn't look at me. Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Simple Man" echoed hauntingly through the quiet, and my fingers tapped the steering wheel along with the slow-driving beat.

"I like this song," I mumbled, just to break the unnerving silence.

"I know." Kaye offered me a half-smile, her eyes still sad. Of course she knew. She could list a thousand songs I liked.

She'd come so close to the truth, tonight, in her concern for poor Nicodemus' despair. Kaye never quite understood the sadness that had pervaded, despite her warm kisses and even warmer laughter. She only knew how to make it go away, or absorb it into her own body. She did it without a thought of self-preservation—she had since she first reached out to me that Halloween night, so fragile in her ghost sheet and plastic chains.

My fingers ground into the steering wheel again.

Why had no one _told_ me she was so miserable?

_Why hadn't I asked her myself, before now?_

All those wasted years…

Something like guilt but weightier, more shameful, thrummed in my chest and I gasped at the strength of it. _I refuse to end up alone because of you…_ One show of defiance, and she'd crumbled my life philosophy. There was no _fate_. _Fortunae_ hadn't caused me to suffer—I was the only one responsible for the piles of poor choices I'd left along my life's path. And by enforcing my preposterously arrogant beliefs on Kaye, I'd stripped her of herchoices, too. There was no apology which would ever undo the damage I'd done to the person I loved most in this world. No words from a wordsmith. I blinked back tears gathering in my eyes.

"Samuel…"

Her eyes were on me now. She could see the tears and her pity was tangible. I knew what she would do next, because she was Kaye.

I shook my head. "No, Kaye. I deserve this. Let me feel it, please."

"Hey. I'm sorry too," she said, streetlights reflecting in her cheerless eyes as we entered Boulder. "I should have seen how sad you were back in college."

_No,_ I mused morbidly. _It would have been too much for you. What little you did see, you made your own…_

But she didn't heed my silent warning.

She offered to let me sleep on her couch. I politely refused.

She confessed how she'd finally abandoned the Cabral name. I pretended as though it hadn't cut me to the core.

She let me hold her and kiss her head. I wanted to stay there forever.

In spite of all I had done, her small, strong hand still beckoned me and, God help me, I let her drive the sadness back like a selfish creature. She made me laugh. She riled me up. She soothed my spirit. She made me feel like the seventeen-year-old boy I'd once been, before illness had invaded my mind.

Because, in spite of all I had done, I would still orbit her—sun and earth.

A not-so-quiet banging of a cabinet from the kitchen interrupted my thoughts, telling me someone else was awake. And if the huffing noises and stomping feet were any indication, I knew who it was. With a final glance at Kaye, I shoved up from the armchair and climbed the stairs before Caroline decided to storm into the basement and wake her up with bitter accusations. Sure, she'd apologized last night. But I knew Caro, and it'd be back to the usual the minute she perkily hopped from bed.

I found her with her face buried in the refrigerator, hunting for orange juice. Finding it, she slinked over to her glass and filled it to the brim. I knew she'd seen me. But, ever composed, she chose not to acknowledge me until she was ready.

"Sleep well?" she chirped, peering at me through long eyelashes, her eyes darting up to the "I'M A NAUGHTY NIXIE" emblazoned across my forehead. She didn't ask about it.

I shrugged. So this was the game. She'd simply ignore my stench, the marker. I'd hoped she'd be more understanding—that she'd realize why, exactly, I needed to fix the mess I'd created with Kaye. Instead, she slurped her orange juice a little too loudly, deposited her glass in the sink, and stretched her long legs for her morning run.

"You're really uptight, Samuel," she said breathily as she arched her back and pulled her toes toward the small of her back, her breasts jutting out.

I shrugged again, also pouring a glass of orange juice and bypassing the cereal. My mother would be awake soon and, no doubt, cooking a feast for the pranksters who'd invaded her home.

"The only time you ever have this sort of anxiety is when you visit Lyons," she continued, bending over and brushing her fingertips across the floor. She wiggled her butt a bit. "When we're in New York, you're so much better. So much more…together."

Was I better in New York? I had to admit, I didn't second-guess myself nearly as much as I did here. And I certainly was much more focused in the city. But then, I didn't feel alive like I did in the mountains. It was as if I hibernated for most of the year, only waking up when my feet hit the home soil the occasional Thanksgiving or Christmas.

Caroline snapped her fingers in front of my face, bringing my attention back to her.

"Anyway, I'm going for a run. If you'd like, I can hold off for ten minutes while you throw on your clothes and shoes."

I shook my head. "Not this morning, Caro. I need to take care of something_." Rather, someone._

"I hope it involves a bar of soap and lots of hot water. You really do smell like shit, Samuel." Her nose wrinkled, and I couldn't help but chuckle.

"I was pranked pretty good last night. When you get back, I'll show you my room. You'll howl when you see what they did to my luggage."

She pouted her subtly botoxed lips and ran a finger along my arm. "I can think of other things that would make me howl," she purred.

I groaned_. _Stepping back, my fingers gripped the counter in frustration. Had she listened to nothing I said last night?

"Caro…"

"Look," she said quickly. "Last night was…awkward, I know. But at least let me flirt a bit with you, Samuel! There's nothing too serious behind that, is there?"

I took a deep breath, knowing it was now or never. "Caroline…this isn't going to work."

"What do you mean? The run?"

"You know what I mean."

Her eyes went painfully cold for a moment, and then it was gone. She flashed a gorgeous smile at me, leaned up, and sensuously kissed my chin. Despite myself, I shuddered.

"Like I said, we just need to get back to New York. You're too anxious here."

"Caro—"

"We'll talk later," she said quickly, her voice warm in all her faux cheerfulness. I knew she would never bring this up again if she could help it. And if I were a gentleman, I wouldn't either…at least until after Danita's wedding, when Caroline would no longer be a guest in my parents' home. But as I thought about the stubborn, beautiful, crazy woman sleeping on the basement sofa, I wondered if I could wait that long.

Last night was an exercise in dualism, essentially. It may have been one of the best and worst nights of my life. After I returned from my time with Kaye at Button Rock Reservoir, I stumbled up the stairs to my old bedroom and shook my laptop to life. Despite the near desperate emotions tumbling in my brain, my fingers ached to finish my latest chapter.

Kaye had to understand…I _needed_ her to understand why I was the way I was, why I had this compulsive drive to make her safe, to keep her happy. She needed to know what destructive, demented things I'd been willing to do—lie to her, leave her—to make her happy. I'd made so many bad choices…

I was so tangled in the Weeping Lady and the words pouring from my mind, I didn't hear the slow creak of the door or the clicking of heels across Sofia's gleaming wood floor.

I glanced up. My jaw dropped.

Caroline sauntered over to my bed and leaned against it, clad in nothing but a black silk robe and an expensive-looking lingerie set. Her mouth was sultry and pouted, her black hair tousled and spilling over her shoulders. I recognized the smoldering look in her eyes. She was intent on what she wanted and if it was the last thing she did, she'd have it.

What she wanted was me.

I cursed internally. Why tonight, of all nights? Why now? Why not a month from now, two months from now, when I had a chance to get my head on straight, to make peace with Kaye…

_Kaye._ I closed my eyes and let my thoughts stray to long nights with her when she'd lean over my bed the way Caroline was now, her fingers skimming gracefully along my stomach, up my chest…If I kept my eyes closed, I could do this. I could give Caro what she needed…what I'd intimated when we began this relationship. If I didn't see her clear, black eyes raking hungrily over my body, I could almost fool myself into believing they were hazel…

"Do you know what I'm going to do to you, Samuel?" she whispered, her breath fanning over my face in a wave of mint so strong, it made my eyes water. "When we're finished, you'll be sobbing my name."

My body twitched in reaction. Her hands skirted up my thighs and kneaded them, roughly. My head fell back and I swallowed, desperately struggling to gain control of my traitor body.

She hummed into my ear. "You'll never want anyone else, ever again."

Caroline placed two firm hands on my shoulders and shoved me against the headboard of my bed, her mouth assaulting mine. Startled, my hands floundered for an instant then gripped her lace-trimmed hips. She moaned into my mouth.

"Samuel," she breathed between kisses. "This is right…just give in."

_No,_ my head rebelled. _This wasn't right_. It wasn't right because she didn't have curly hair or freckled skin. She didn't smell like fresh air, or flowers, or whatever the girly fragrance was Kaye used. Her head didn't belong in the crook of my arm, and she didn't know that nipping the skin beneath my chin drove me absolutely insane with lust. It wasn't right because she wasn't _Kaye._

"Stop." I turned my head from her hot mouth and transferred my grip to her shoulders, easing her off of me. "I'm sorry, Caro," I groaned. "I can't do this with you."

Scowling, she gathered her silky black robe tighter against her chest. "What's that supposed to mean?" she snarled. "Who _can_ you do this with, then, if not your girlfriend?"

_Girlfriend?_ Is that what she thought she was to me? Crud. Of course she would think that…she had no reason _not_ to, after I'd promised to give it a go with her.

Caroline's brittle eyes scoured my room for answers, as if she expected someone to pop out of my closet. Then her gaze honed in on my open laptop…on the picture of two grinning children hovering over a birthday cake…on the chapter I'd been furiously composing before she'd slipped, half naked, into my room…and I knew what she saw:

Aspen said this…Aspen did that_…_Aspen was_ everything…Aspen…Aspen…Aspen…_

With an angry, excruciating grind into my pelvis, she swung her long, heel-clad leg from my body and slid from the bed. My hands flew down, protecting the goods from her stiletto. I couldn't help but think if it had been Kaye in lingerie and heels, she would have caught her heel in the blanket and tumbled to the ground, brazenly flashing black lace. And if Kaye had sauntered into the room wearing what Caroline wore, I would have flown to her so quickly we wouldn't have even made it to the bed.

But Caroline was not Kaye and she knew it. Hurt and fury radiated from the cast off female staring me down.

"You're still in love with her, aren't you?" she hissed. "That Podunk MaryAnn you can't stop writing about. She has your balls duct-taped in a memento box somewhere under her bed. I can't _believe_ after seven years, you're still panting after her!"

"I'm with you, aren't I?" I growled.

"_Are _you?" she snorted. "I bet that's why you can't seem to keep a woman around for more than a month. Every time you came, you were probably stuttering _her_ name. That's pathetic, Samuel. You're worse than a prudish little girl. I bet you're a bad lay, too."

A rival fury stirred in my chest, partly because there was truth to what she'd said. But I forced it back, refusing to let her claws find purchase.

"I guess you'll never have the pleasure of finding out," I said, and dismissively turned back to my laptop. Caro could be a manipulative bitch. I'd learned long ago to tune her out when she turned her vitriol on me. I'd rejected her. Her pride was wounded, so of course she was a hell-cat.

She wavered at the foot of my bed and, for a moment, I thought she was going to try to jump me again. Instead she clapped across the wooden floor and angrily swung the door open, pausing only to get in the last word.

"Don't forget, _Sr. Cabral_ she said icily, "among other things, I'm still your editor. The minute you finish that chapter, I want to hear an inbox alert. Do you understand?"

_Loud and clear_. If she wanted it the minute I was done, I fully intended to email my chapter to her at four in the morning. Something heavy was seeping through me, and it had everything to do with what Caroline had forced in front of my face:

I was in love with one woman, but dating another.

As much as she'd pushed for us to take our friendship to the next level, I should never have given in. It was grossly unfair to Caroline. Kaye may not want me anymore, but it didn't mean I was free to give myself to someone else. As Caro so ineloquently put it, Kaye had me by the balls. If she snapped, I'd be at her feet in a minute.

What had possessed me to think I could ever move on with someone else? That I could compartmentalize my feelings for Kaye, seal up that box with packing tape and label it: _Life in Colorado_? Loving Kaye was my life. Even though we'd signed a piece of paper stating otherwise, that vow stood as true to me today as it did on our wedding day. So help me, I'd give her what she needed. And after her tearful pleas at Button Rock, what she needed was for the lies to end.

Not long after this revelation, I quietly crept past the den and the faint brass riffs of a late-night program, to the kitchen for my nightly cup of tea. The ritual made me feel like Angel's old _abuela_. But insomnia was detrimental and, rather than take yet another pill to filter through my blood stream, I used natural remedies like tea, music, showers.

But when I rounded the corner, I was caught off guard. Instead of the empty kitchen I thought I'd find, Danita and Caroline sat opposite each other at the counter, their heads bent over steaming mugs of hot chocolate.

Caro had abandoned her black silk for a set of flannel pajamas and a fluffy white robe. Her hair was pulled up and, with a twinge of guilt, I saw that her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. When she heard my footfalls, her head ducked even further, hiding her embarrassment from me. With a sigh, I crossed the room and stood behind her, my hands hovering over her shoulders.

"Caro…"

Danita arched a fine eyebrow, her eyes full of unspoken anger. She rose from her mug and left the room, and I knew I'd be getting an earful from her shortly.

My hands finally settled on Caroline's shoulders and I squeezed them.

"I'm so very sorry," I murmured. "I don't want this to ruin a seven-year friendship."

She waved her hand. "It's fine, Samuel. I know what she's been to you, and I know this visit is difficult. If I had a shot at Lyle again, I'd do the same thing." She shifted on her stool, her puffy face meeting mine. "I went into this with eyes wide open."

I squeezed her shoulders again. "I'm sorry I can't give you more. I don't know if I'll ever be able to—"

"One day at a time," she cut in, offering me a weary smile. "I pushed too hard tonight. When we get back to New York, we'll just see what happens, shall we?"

"We'll see," I sighed, too damned weak to tell her no when she was trying so hard to be what I needed. And I was too afraid to tell her she could _never _be what I needed. I couldn't do it…not tonight.

I returned to my room, forgetting the tea. Which, of course, gave Danita the perfect excuse to storm my sanctuary.

"_Cabrón_," she hissed as she closed my bedroom door and slammed a mug of tea on my nightstand.

"Ah…thanks," I stuttered. I closed the book I'd been reading and pushed my glasses into my hair, bracing for a storm.

Hands on her hips, Danita stared me down with a terror-inducing glare she'd perfected over the years. God help her future children.

"You need to either man up and get serious about that woman downstairs or cut her loose. But whatever you do, don't keep stringing her along with half-hearted promises of a future together."

I averted my eyes from her death glare and gulped my tea. "Danita, you of all people should know—"

"That you're so in love with Kaye you can't piss straight? Yeah…that's another thing." She shifted her feet and I felt her anger multiply, if it was possible. "Who the hell loves someone so much, they _abandon_ them? That is the most ass-backward thing I've ever heard! I'm giving you the same advice, _hermano_—man up or cut her loose. But either way, you need to give Kaye the real reason you left."

I hissed through my teeth, running frenzied hands through my hair. "My god, Dani, I'd think, if _anything_, you'd be cartwheeling down the driveway because Kaye was spared the pain of being married to me."

"Spared?' she gaped at me in amazement. "You think you _spared_ her? She's an utter mess in the love department, Samuel. You really screwed her over—so much so, she's terrified to be alone, but terrified to date someone else. You do what it takes to fix her, and that means telling her every last thing or so help me, the minute I return from my honeymoon, I'm breaking my promise."

I narrowed my eyes at her over my mug of tea. "Is that an ultimatum?"

She flipped her braided hair over her shoulder. "You bet it is. You make plans to tell her everything you told me last month, or I'll tell her _my_ way. And trust me, _my_ way won't be kind to you. I can't _believe _you told Angel _two years ago_ and not your own sister!"

Poor Angel. He'd gotten an earful from Dani, too.

I set my mug down on the table as a sudden wave of exhaustion washed over me. The digital clock next to my bed read five after eleven. I rubbed my aching forehead, aware that Danita watched me with a strange mix of fury and triumph.

"I already have a plan," I conceded, thinking of the book I was going to give to Kaye—a book of stories about our childhood and everything that had been in my head from the time I was six. I wanted her to be a part of it. More and more, as the meds wreaked havoc on my memory, I wanted her side of our story. And by bringing her in on the drafts, I could correct the lies. She'd get the truth in the most honest, most personal way I could think to give it to her—my written words. Now I just had to convince her to help me write it.

It was a better option than letting Danita tell her, anyway.

As another bout of extreme tiredness punched me in the gut and I fell back on my pillow, almost immobile, I finally realized why Dani had been smirking. _She'd drugged my tea_. Not caring that my sister still malevolently hovered in my room, I shirked out of my clothes and pulled myself into bed. I gave in to sleep so quickly, I had only a fraction of a minute to worry _why_, exactly, she'd drugged me…

Kaye's eyelids fluttered. They weren't "dreaming" flutters, this time. I glanced at the clock again…nine-thirty. She'd wake up soon. I leaned in closer, waiting for the first flash of hazel. Yes, there it was…lovely. Despite the wretched sour milk smell, the red "I'M NAUGHTY TOO" scrawled across her forehead, the rumpled clothing and tangled hair, she was perfect. My heart hit the top of my throat and I swallowed, aching to wrap a finger around the wisps and curls framing her face.

Oh, she'd be angry about the marker and the soured milk, most definitely. But she had to know it was coming. That's the way we worked. Since we'd first discovered the art of the prank, we'd used it to its fullest advantage. Some kids pulled hair and blew raspberries at their respective crushes. We'd been much, much more devious. Fake blood and whoopee cushions had been our language of irritation, and smugness, and love.

Her eyelids fluttered again and she groaned, her arms stretching over her head. I clutched the arms of my chair, waiting for her awareness to sink in. My mouth curled into a smile at her confusion, then her grimace at the sour smell.

"Ewwww," she moaned, and her eyes met mine in playful accusation.

I gazed back, grateful for a second chance. Abashedly, I realized I'd reject a hundred Carolines if it brought me one more morning watching her sleep. And this time, there'd be no more lies.

* * *

**Shameless plug take 4: Again, if you are interested in reading the new version of ****_Hydraulic Level Five_**** (or need a refresher), you can find it on Amazon (also on my profile).**

**__****_***Hydraulic Level Five_****on AMAZON**_*******_**amazon dot com /Hydraulic-Level-Five-ebook/dp/B00EXC1G0Y/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1378411426&sr=1-1&keywords=Hydraulic+Level+Five**


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